


The Long Way Home

by Dekka



Series: Postural Hypotension AU [4]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, hypotension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:33:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25920637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dekka/pseuds/Dekka
Summary: Mitch stumbles once, down to the ice, and even as Auston is yelling at him to stay down, he’s trying to get back up to his feet again.It feels like every nightmare he’s ever had; Mitch’s body falling, heavy, unaided, while the crowd at his back amplifies with a roar of unease.
Relationships: Connor McDavid/Dylan Strome, Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews
Series: Postural Hypotension AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1550362
Comments: 15
Kudos: 156





	The Long Way Home

For Mitch, the first glide of his skates on ice is always the most relieving. 

He can float away as the muscles in his legs take over and the pumping of his heart becomes sufficient enough for him to stop counting the seconds or minutes in-between the two-fast flutters of his heart. 

On the ice, there’s no frantic, internal voice berating him for his condition while he glides past teammates. Instead, there’s just the hypnotic sound of skate blades digging into a fresh rink. 

As much as Mitch’s condition is a battle he’s familiar with, it’s one he’d rather not have to fight. 

Hockey seems to be the perfect cure. 

The game brings his heart to a pounding pace that wipes away all worry as his blood pressure raises to normal levels. He feels free like this, no different than the next player- at least until the puck is bumping into his feet. Then, he’s magic. 

He takes off, dashing down the ice. 

The first and second periods of the game that night come and go like any other. By the third they’re down only by one against the Oilers and quickly gaining momentum. 

He’s played his heart out, mostly to combat the bet he has going with Davo, but that doesnt stop him from appreciating the second they have to rest. 

To keep his heart rate up, Mitch kicks lazily at the boards from his place on the bench while he drowns out the instructions Tavares is barking into his ear. They’ve only got two minutes to breathe, and Mitch intends to make the most of it. 

One minute in, their trainer Paul taps him on the shoulder as he passes down the bench, a reminder for Mitch to stay moving. 

Even out of breath, Mitch still manages to huff out an annoyed groan. He’s been going all game and is admittedly starting to feel the ache of the last check he took. 

It feels too soon as the whistle signaling play to begin again blows, quickly followed by Auston’s line squaring off at the face-off circle. 

Mitch tries to follow the puck as the minutes tick by, but he finds his head lowered, his chest still heaving as sweat drips down his forehead and falls into his visor. 

“Power play unit 2,” Keefe yells. 

Mitch never even heard the first whistle for the penalty. 

Either way, he’s too happy to care, just grateful that it’s not his special team that’s being called out. 

Over the next forty seconds, he steadies his breathing and waits to hear his line get called. 

A too loud, piercing yell of, “ _Change, change, change_ ,” snaps him back into the game. 

He doesnt even have time to second guess himself as he pushes his body over the boards. 

Instead, he sees the puck and goes, picking it off a defender. 

The first swim of his vision comes in fast and fleeting, gone before he can even worry about it. He covers his stumble with a look down at his skates, like they’re the problem. 

A second ago he felt fine. So, convinced it’s just a fluke dip in his blood pressure, he looks back to the puck. 

Barrie is circling it until he finds his mark and passes it up the ice. 

As Mitch books it down, he can see Paul and another trainer watching him from the bench. 

For a second Mitch considers that he should wave him down, but then the puck’s being played to him and his mind is filled with a new concern. 

He circles, sees an opening in the ice, and instinct kicks in. He breaks left, then spins, pulling towards the path he sees to the net. 

But when he looks for the net, it’s washed out, too bright. 

Everything feels overexposed, the ice nearly glowing and the arena’s air too clammy. 

At his feet, he fumbles the puck, seeing double, then triple. 

Frantically, he tries to blink away the mirage. 

It makes him stagger. 

He slows down enough that the puck is gone when his vision rights itself and the defender who picked it off is in front of him, circling it back to his partner. 

Mitch doesnt even realize it’s Rielly with it until he’s yelling at Mitch to move. 

Obediently, he takes one stride, then another, gaining ground quickly. 

“ _Blow the whistle_ ,” someone yells, and Mitch doesnt get why. He looks around for clarity, but his vision smears the colors of the world together. 

Down the ice, he can see that their opponents are skating with hesitation, like they’re not sure if they should keep playing. 

He sees an open path to the net and knows he should take it. It’s the perfect time to strike, but with his weight on one foot to turn sharply, the world decides to twist on its axis instead. The blurred colors around him sink to a sickly gray, sending him down to the ice in a heap. 

It’s the second lashing of gray-spotted vision that keeps him down when he tries to push himself back up again. 

His efforts only make his head swim with a finality that always ends one way; he’s unconscious before he hits the ground. 

***

Auston goes into each game with too many thoughts running through his head and somehow still always manages to drop into an internal headspace the second the puck hits ice. 

He watches robotically and plays with a running dialog of _‘oh shit, get the puck, come on_ ,’ and goads himself on. 

It’s how the time disappears off the clock like magic, the periods almost like black outs as minutes and hours disappear in a snap under his hypnotic state. 

It’s why when the third period is about to start, he realizes he hasn’t seen Mitch all intermission. 

The sight of his boyfriend half way down the bench, his head bowed and chest heaving, makes Auston wave Paul down the bench. 

He only lets the man get so far, pointing him off to check on Mitch. After months of working together, Paul goes instantly, and Auston falls back into the game, mentally gearing himself up for another twenty minutes of hockey. 

It’s ten minutes into the third, during their power play unit together, that Mitch steals the puck off an oiler’s player and skates off to open ice. 

The path Mitch is on isn’t a set up, but Auston trusts his vision enough to circle back with him. 

It isn’t until Morgan is yelling at the ref to stop the game that Auston even considers that something isn’t right. 

His eyes fall to Mitch like second nature, but he’s too far away to get to him in time. 

Mitch stumbles once, down to the ice, and even as Auston is yelling at him to stay down, he’s trying to get back up to his feet again. 

It feels like every nightmare he’s ever had; Mitch’s body falling, heavy, unaided, while the crowd at his back amplifies with a roar of unease. 

Mitch makes it on teetering stakes for two whole strides before his weight tips heavily to one, turning his body sharply in a way that forces him off balance. 

Auston’s only three feet away when Mitch’s snow-covered gloves go slack, dropping his stick before the rest of his body follows to the unforgiving ice. 

“ _Help Paul_ ,” Morgan yells to Auston, already skidding to a halt in front of Mitch himself. 

It’s like the adrenaline takes over from there, auto pilot forcing Auston forward, back to the bench to grab onto Paul and help him jog across the ice. 

Despite his help, they’ve moving too slow. Both of their eyes are stuck on Mitch as more and more players and the refs crowd closer. 

Tavares ends up being the push they need. He takes up Paul’s other side to help them move faster, and soon Auston is left standing to the side, his stomach at his feet, as medical trainers descend on Mitch.

It’s the outside perspective that makes him realize just how quiet the rink around them has become. 

Reality becomes a dream-like nightmare as the bench-side announcer’s voice travels across the ice as he speaks into his mic. “ _Marner has not moved since he fell to the ice the second time_.” 

The thought of so many people watching this makes Auston sick. 

“ _Move aside, move aside_.” The trainers from the other team join the mix of people surrounding Mitch, followed right after by the team doctor. 

It’s then that the overwhelming need to get closer, to cover Mitch’s body with his own, forces Auston to move closer. He takes a knee where he finds the slightest gap, giving the professionals room to work while still hoping that if Mitch wakes up, his eyes will find Auston’s first. 

The last thing they need is for him to be panicked. 

It’s only another minute of half stuttering breaths before the call for the stretcher comes.

And in the midst of the chaos- of the deafening silence of the rink- Mitch’s eyes flutter open. 

Auston wants so badly to push forward, to hold his hand, to tell him he’s alright. 

“ _Auston_ ,” Paul calls, and waves him forward. It feels too good to be true. “Mo,” Paul calls right after. 

They’re allowed closer to steady the stretcher for the medics wearing shoes. 

“Hey, Mitchy, you’re alright,” Auston promises, when he gets close enough. The blank eyes, confused and still half-mast, that meet his make his chest ache. 

All Mitch can do is give him is a weak smile, his eyes barely able to hold onto Auston’s for seconds at a time. He keeps batting his lashes like they’re too heavy to keep open between the glances he takes up at the officials surrounding him. 

“What happened?” Mitch tries to ask, but Paul presses a hand to his chest, holding him down against the ice. “You passed out, we’re going to get you up on the stretcher, okay?” 

Mitch shakes his head no, but even still his eyes slip shut a second after. 

“We should let him sit up a little, once we have him on the stretcher,” Auston says to Paul. The judgmental looks from both the paramedics and the other team’s staff makes him feel heavily out of his depth. 

Even as Paul is already complying, Auston finds the need to defend himself. “When he’s like this and I move him from laying down he gets nauseous, but if he sits up first he’s normally okay.” 

“Players,” the team Doctor calls- interrupting him- and Auston and Mo go where he directs, one on each side of Mitch to balance the board. 

“We’re going to lift on three, get him laying on the stretcher, then raise up the back to let him center himself,” Paul tells the group. 

It goes seamlessly, Mitch left still coming around as they get him situated on the stretcher. 

“You’re okay,” Auston promises him, as they’re helping steady the stretcher and the paramedics as they head off the ice. 

Mitch is too out of it to fully understand, but even still- as his head lulls back and he’s taken out the doors- he’s giving Auston’s a thumbs up. 

The sticks taping the ice as they turn back to the bench settle an anxious crowd and even more anxious players, but not Auston. 

It’s a moment almost too reminiscent of the first time Auston found out about Mitch’s condition. The surreal, intrusiveness of reality almost doesnt seem possible. 

As he’s grabbing for his water, trying not to get too stuck in his head, McDavid comes by and taps his shin guards with his stick. 

“The usual?” He asks.

Auston nods and spits his water back out onto the ice. It doesnt taste right. “He hasn’t gone completely unconscious in a couple weeks. But he seemed pretty out of it.” It helps, to talk about it. Like now that he’s saying it out loud he can finally process the reality of it. 

Connor seems no better off. They’re on unfamiliar ground. “Text me, when you can,” he says. “I know it’ll probably be a rough night, but just tell Mitch we can just hang out next time.” He seems just concerned enough that Auston gives him a light shove, back towards his bench, with a smile that grows real as he promises Connor, “Mitchy will be fine, okay? We’ll call you- I’m sure he’ll still want to watch a movie or something.”

***

They lose, but no one cares about that when they get back to the locker room and Mitch isnt there waiting. 

“Is Paul in the offices?” Auston asks Mo, when he comes back from getting his shoulder taped. 

Mo can only offer him an apologetic smile. “No, man, sorry.” 

Auston doesnt know how to take that. If Paul and Mitch aren’t in the away-team’s medical offices, where are they?

“Guys,” Coach calls, and everyone’s forced to gather at their stalls, stripping off their gear as Keefe gives them some encouraging words and then the schedule and call times for tomorrow. 

Auston’s setting an alarm on his phone for the bus call time in the morning when coach goes on. “I have an update on Mitch.”’ 

His head shoots up, his fingers frozen over his phone. 

“After getting him to the trainer’s office and getting treated, he lost consciousness again. It was decided then that they’d take him to the nearest hospital to be checked over.” 

The news settles like lead in an already heavy room. 

“We’ll get another update soon, but for now, everyone head back and get some good food and go to bed early.” They’re dismissed just like that, no reassurances to follow. 

Stuck there for the second time tonight, Auston moves on autopilot until coach calls him over. 

“You still road roomies with Mitch?” 

Auston nods. 

“I wouldn’t expect him back tonight, but if he’s not back by morning, can I trust you to pack up his stuff and get it down to the buses, or should I send a staff assistant up?” 

Auston shakes his head. “I got it,” he insists. Then, too worried to bite his tongue, “Coach, what happened? Why isn’t he coming back?” 

He feels juvenile, staring up at Keefe with pleading eyes. 

Something must give, because Coach’s hard stares softens at his look. “Auston-” He seems to consider his words carefully, each one gentle and slow. “Mitch did pass out in the trainer’s room, but then he passed out again as they were loading him up for the hospital. He wasn’t able to stay conscious for more than a couple minutes, even after they got an IV in him.” 

Every worst fear of Auston’s is confirmed just like that. The lying, the fake updates- everything was to keep a calm profile while shit hit the fan behind the scenes.

He feels like a broken penny slot, symptomatic problems flying through his brain at breakneck speed. There’s so much that could go wrong. “Did he go into shock?” 

Coach grabs his shoulder, steadying him. “I’m sorry Auston, I don’t know. We’ll know more in the morning.” 

If it’s shock, Mitch could be dead. 

Who knows if they’re even telling him the whole story. 

Under a thin vail of panic, Auston bears the news like a weight on his back and carries himself back to his stall. 

There’s no one he can talk to on the team who wouldn’t immediately think the worst if he explained this type of shock to them. 

Instead, he texts McDavid. 

‘ _Room 947_.’ 

****

Auston breaks the news of Mitch’s status like he’s ripping off a bandaid. 

To his credit, McDavid doesnt even flinch. “Did Mitch ever tell you how I found out about his condition?” He asks, instead. 

Auston shrugs. “Something about you fainting.” 

There’s something about the way Connor makes himself comfortable on Mitch’s side of the bed that calms Auston. Like if he’s not panicking, Auston shouldn’t be either. 

“We’re in juniors, right,” he starts, and Auston falls into the cadence of his voice, sinking into the bed next to him. 

“And I had such a stick up my ass. Dylan and Mitch were constantly getting into trouble and I never wanted to be dragged along and somehow I still always was.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Auston jokes. 

Connor shoots him a soft smile, all-knowing. “And Mitch was supposed to be at his billet family’s house for the night, but instead he snuck into me and Dylan’s room. We were a couple of shots into a stolen bottle of whiskey, and Mitch stands up, looks right at me, grimaces, and proceeds to completely pass out.” 

Auston snorts. “He’s a lightweight, too. I’m sure that helped.” 

Wistful and altogether too tragic, McDavid smiles. “I was sixteen and stupid and thought we killed him. I’m pretty sure I started confessing anything and everything to Dylan out of pure guilt. Then, next thing I know, Stromer’s standing above me in the shower, with Mitch laying in the tub next to me while we’re both being pelted with cold water.” 

Seemingly lost in the memory, McDavid’s smile falls one second at a time. 

Auston nudges him with his toe. 

“Mitch is going to be fine,” he promises him and, if he’s being honest, himself, too. 

“I know,” Connor says. 

Auston can hear him swallow uneasily, like he’s trying to choke down a harsh, tugging breath of air. 

With nothing to do but wait, they turn on a shitty sitcom to distract their minds and Auston falls asleep later to the sound of Connor’s voice, soft and reassuring over FaceTime as he explains what happened tonight to Dylan Strome. 

“When I got the notification on my phone my heart just dropped,” Auston can hear Dylan saying. 

When they hang up, Auston swears he hears one of them whisper ‘i love you,’ but he cant be sure, not as the day weighs heavy on him, pulling him into an exhausted sleep. 

****

Auston wakes up alone in a room just shy of too hot. The sun is blazing in and he’s sweating more than he’d like to admit, but he doesnt have time to shower. 

He packs his stuff, then Mitch’s, and goes to breakfast.

When he comes to the food hall with bruised under eyes and Mitch’s bag as well as his own, word spreads fast from teammate to teammate.

Even twelve hours later, it still doesnt feel real. 

The guys are courteous enough not to directly ask him what’s up, but he can practically feel their eyes on him throughout the morning. 

It’s anyone’s guess if Mitch will make the plane home, but Auston’s keeping the seat next to him open just in case. 

By the time the whole crew is settled in, he’s given up hope. 

He’s shoving his head phones in so the guys leave him alone, when a hand shoots out from between the seats, slapping at his arm. There’s half an explicit sentence past his lips when his eyes latch onto the front of the plane, where Mitch is being lead down the aisle by Paul. 

Their trainer’s hands never leave Mitch’s side, seeming to hold him up as much as he is guiding him. 

When Mitch’s searching eyes land on Auston’s, all he can offer him is a weak smile. The bags under his eyes are worse than Auston’s even, and the crook of his arm is loitered with bruises that speak of multiple IV bags and dehydrated veins. 

“Next to Auston,” he hears Mitch say to Paul. Each step they take together seems to get more shaky, Mitch gripping harder at the seats he passes to steady himself. 

If there were any other way to say it, Auston would, but, “you look like shit,” he tells Mitch, when he’s finally in front of him. 

He gets a real smile then, Mitch beaming at him even as Auston has to stand up just to help Paul lower Mitch carefully into his seat. 

“You do too,” Mitch promises, his smile fond even if his tone is apologetic. At least now he’s learned to stop saying sorry for things he can’t control. 

Paul leaves them with one last once-over of Mitch, making them both promise to get him right away if something goes wrong. 

But even as they’re left alone, there’s no illusion of privacy. Auston can practically feel the heat of 22 of their teammates’ gazes on them. 

“Are you okay?” He asks first, when Mitch decides now would be the perfect time to sit back and close his eyes. Something about the movement makes anxiety shake Auston’s chest, as if Mitch is just going to fall back into unconsciousness the second he stops fighting to keep his eyes open. 

“More or less,” Mitch tells him, and wraps Auston’s hand in his. They aren’t out to everyone on the team, but Auston doubts any of the guys would question their closeness right now. 

When they finally get in the air, Mo drops them off a blanket, two waters, and some fruit, and pretends like he isn't spying on them to report back to the rest of the team. 

“Thanks, Mom,” Mitch chirps, and wraps his arms around Morgan’s waist. The vet falls too easily into the hug, betraying his nonchalance. 

“Glad you’re okay, kid,” he says sincerely when they pull apart. 

Mitch pats his chest before he goes. “I’m good, really.” 

Auston’s not so sure. He waits until Mo is back at his seat before he turns on Mitch. 

“Why couldn’t you stay awake yesterday, after you passed out?” 

The question hangs heavy between them and Mitch pulls his lip in to chew nervously at it. 

“I was severely dehydrated and my blood pressure dropped to levels common in shock.” 

Auston takes the news like a baseball bat to the gut. For a minute, all he can do is try to breathe through it. 

There’s so many questions pilling up on him, each more terrifying than the last. “Are you- what’ll happen to- why did it happen? Can you still play?” 

Mitch eases him back in his seat, his expression looking broken at seeing Auston so out of his mind with worry. “Calm down, Auston, please,” He begs. 

But Auston cant look at Mitch like this, so clearly not okay, and force himself to act like everything’s fine anymore. The worry is like a physical wake in his stomach, cresting into a white cap as the seconds bleed away. 

“I’m gonna be sick.” He chokes on the words, and then a second later, at Mitch’s call, one of the other trainers is at his side, pulling him up and helping him past Mitch. 

Their plane has a slightly bigger bathroom to fit athletes, but even still the room is small, especially as Auston feels like the walls of the plane are closing in on him. 

His anxiety makes him get sick twice, his hands shaking for purchase against the toilet paper holder as he trembles apart. 

“Can you get Paul?” He asks the other trainer, when he finally feels like the plane isn't spinning into it’s descent. He tries not to feel guilty for requesting a different staff member, but Paul’s been with them since the beginning and is the one that deals mostly with Mitch’s problems. 

A moment later, Paul comes into the bathroom doorway with a calming presence that makes Auston conscious enough to feel comfortable leaning back against the sink cabinet as he’s assessed. 

“You should maybe see someone when we get back,” Paul recommends after taking his pulse and running him through a breathing exercise. 

Auston shakes his head no. “Tell me about Mitch,” he commands. 

With a glance back to the seats and an assumed consent from Mitch, Paul lays everything out for him. 

“We’re going to make a game plan after Mitch sees his specialist tomorrow.” Auston relaxes into Paul’s voice as he imagines each step as Paul tells him about it. “We’re going to do fluid bags before each game, a jog before he goes out between intermissions, followed by a vitals reading, and his pre-game meals are going to be split into two parts: one for carbs earlier, and one for protein closer to the game. Splitting the two will help with the volume of blood for his pulmonary system. Auston-” He waits until Auston’s eyes meet his, steady. “-this is manageable and despite this set back, Mitch will be fine.” 

Panic makes it hard to believe it could ever be that easy as Auston heaves down a deep breath, then another. “Can I have a minute?” 

Hesitantly, Paul nods. “Leave the door unlocked though, just in case.” 

It takes more effort than it should to pull himself up to his feet. The image that greets him in the mirror is hard to look at. These last twenty four hours have been nightmarish and just now it feels like it’s all catching up to him. 

Two hard knocks break his staring contest with himself. 

“Paul, I’m good,” he calls, but the door is pushed open a second after. 

Mitch squeezes into the already small room. 

“Hey,” he says carefully. 

Auston folds into him. 

There’s so much to say, but he cant find the words. Instead, he maneuvers them to trade places, using his body to keep Mitch back against the sink cabinet so that he has something to lean against to stay upright. 

“I love you,” Auston says, pressing the words into Mitch’s shoulder, where his face is buried. 

Mitch kisses the side of his head, then settles even more against Auston. 

“Lock the door,” he whispers, and Auston blindly complies. 

The sound of the lock sliding into place makes his shoulders relax, even as his grip around Mitch goes tighter. 

“See, Aus,” Mitch soothes a hand down his back, “we’re safe here. Just you and me. We’re okay.” 

Auston shakes apart in his hold. Tears flood into Mitch’s collar bone, and despite his hitching breaths that give him away, Auston tries to bite back a sob.

They take all the time they need. 

It’s hard to leave the bubble Mitch created and it’s even harder to know they’ll have to face their teammates. 

“You cant run away from me like that,” Mitch says and shakes him a little. “I cant follow you when I’m like this.” 

Auston snorts. “You got to me though.” 

“Yeah,” Mitch huffs, “Fred practically carried me half the way here.” It’s a thought Auston lets ruminate for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes to Mitch. He means it. But Mitch just shakes his head and tries to clear the tears from Auston’s eyes. Nothing they do will stop anyone from noticing their bloodshot eyes, wet eyelashes, and blush-red noses. 

The glare Auston’s given is strong and, despite it’s scolding nature for the apology, Auston’s settled by it’s ferocity after seeing Mitch so weak today. 

“If I cant apologize for this,” Mitch says, and motions at the mess that is his body right now, “then neither can you.” 

Auston kisses him then. He feels like he pours his heart and every anxiety tormenting him into the hard press of their lips. 

When they pull apart, Mitch pulls him back in for a much gentler, sweeter kiss. This time they don’t separate, stuck holding each other, forehead to forehead. 

“We have to go back to our seats,” Mitch tells him. Auston can feel his smile against his own lips. “Okay,” he agrees, but only after another minute.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments feed the writer :)


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